JUNE 30, 2016 // 23
BOOK SHELF // GLIMPSE // WILDLIFE // POP CULTURE // WORDS // Q&A // FOOD // FUN
PHOTO BY MATT LOVE
The loose life lives on in the Bridge Tender in Seaside.
A G LIMPSE I NSIDE
By MATT LOVE
Bridge Tender
SUBMITTED PHOTO
The banana slug can grow to almost 10 inches long and is a master decomposer.
Ariolimax columbianus
Paciic banana slug
By LYNETTE
RAE MCADAMS
A native of the forest loor
from southeast Alaska all
the way to Southern Califor-
nia, the Paciic banana slug
especially thrives in the moist
environs of our local coastal
woodlands.
The second largest species
of terrestrial slug on the
planet, it can grow to almost
10 inches long and weigh as
much as four ounces. Typical-
ly yellow in color (denoting its
common name), this slug can
also appear greenish, brown,
tan, or even white, and often
exhibits dark brown spots.
Using a muscular foot, it
moves at a rate of six inches
per minute.
Well-known for its slimy
reputation, A. columbianus is
ofensively gross to many, but
widely misunderstood. Serv-
ing as a master decomposer,
it consumes forest plant
matter at an almost alarming
rate, helping spread seeds
and spores in the process, all
the while excreting a nitro-
gen-rich fertilizer — further
securing its place of impor-
tance in the nutrient cycle.
While admittedly of-put-
ting to most humans, the
thick mucous secreted by a
banana slug aids in the mul-
tiple purposes of respiration,
locomotion, self-protection
against predators, and per-
haps most importantly, the
attraction of a mate. Laced
with pheromones, the slime
— a universal delicacy among
slugs — draws potential
partners toward each other
at the beginning of what
will become a long and slow
(very, very slow) courtship.
Though possessing both
male and female genitalia,
and biologically capable of
self-fertilization, the her-
maphroditic banana slug
prefers to expand its gene
pool by mating with another
slug. In a ritual of copulation
that would make even a
presidential candidate blush,
mating slugs stimulate one
another for hours until pe-
nises erupt from their heads
— sometimes as long as the
slug’s whole body — then
exchange sperm and store
it to fertilize their own eggs
internally. To disengage from
intercourse, the slug gnaws
of its own penis.
On the brighter side,
Paciic banana slugs have two
sets of tentacles: The upper
pair, known as eyestalks, are
responsible for sensing light
and motion; the lower pair
detect chemicals or distin-
guish smells. With incredible
dexterity, the slug can retract
or extend the tentacles at
will, and should one be lost,
the slug can grow a new
one. (Sadly, this regenerative
property does not apply to
genitalia.)
Some reports indicate
that licking the underside
of a banana slug will make
one’s tongue go numb; only
the most intrepid scientists
among us know for sure.
Thirty-one years is a
long time between visits
to a bar, but it sure has a
nice ring to it.
About a month ago,
I walked into the Bridge
Tender in Seaside, ordered
a beer, watched a slack
Necanicum River from the
corner window, and dived
back into my personal
history.
It was noon on a week-
day. I had nothing to do.
Seaside felt listless under
overcast skies.
The last time I patron-
ized the Bridge Tender
was the summer of 1985
when I was 21 years old.
My buddies and I were
rampaging through town,
acting dumb, living the
loose life that character-
ized that era.
Let me admit some-
thing: I miss the loose
American life. I want to
write a book about the
important lack of loose-
ness in our culture without
sounding nostalgic. Is that
possible? Is it possible to
make the case for loose
again and commit to a
Giant National Untether-
ing? Let’s get it loose. Let
it loose.
I surveyed the Bridge
Tender. It seemed pret-
ty much the same as I
remembered it from my
youth. The gritty wood
interior was still intact!
Thank the gods of Oregon
tavern life.
Yes, there was liquor
and micro beers now, vid-
eo slots, a latscreen TV
and clear air. But there
were also plenty of cultur-
al items from the loose
past: a cigarette machine,
a (non-internet) jukebox,
pool tables, and locals
talking gossip about other
locals who didn’t measure
up in multiple categories
of human measuring. I
could listen to these men
for hours spin their yarns
of eternal looseness.
I might also add that
not a single Bridge Tender
customer was iddling on
a smartphone, dinking on
a tablet or seemingly con-
cerned that work needed
doing somewhere else.
They were fall feeling,
unhurried, talking good
profane talk and extolling
the virtues of naps. It’s
called loose.
Matt Love is the author/editor of
14 books, including “A Nice Piece
of Astoria” and “Of Walking in
Rain.” His books are available at
coastal bookstores or his website,
nestuccaspitpress.com
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